Posts Tagged ‘high grass’

When Flowers Are Needed

August 4, 2017

There is love to be had.

In the giving.

In the receiving.

How touched I am.

How tearful and over awed and resplendent with feeling.

The gift.

It is perfect.

It is.

You know me.

The gift is perfect because you know me.

It is thoughtful.

When so many others have been thoughtless.

I cannot count the number of times.

Too many to count.

I could use all my fingers, all my limbs.

If I had a nickel for each one.

Well.

Perhaps I would not buy a house.

But I could have a very nice meal.

Very nice.

All the times.

Those gifts from thoughtless people.

Who.

Perhaps were not thoughtless, they gave me a gift, they thought of me.

What they thought of me was not me though.

It was a projection of what they wanted me to be.

You.

Oh, you.

On the other hand.

My magic man.

You see me.

You gave me something full of thought.

Full of heart.

Full of love.

Tender and endearing and whisperwhip sweet.

The puddle I found myself in.

When I opened it.

Abashed and eager all at the same time.

The joy of being known.

It feels like barn swallows at dusk swooping through the air.

It sounds like crickets in the high grass.

It sings to me of warm air at night so thick and replete with moisture that there is

No telling where your skin ends and the night begins.

It smells like lilacs in the high heat of summer in the Midwest.

It is the swelter of blush on my face.

It is everything.

You are everything.

How do you know me so well?

Transparent.

Taken.

And.

Complimented.

 

This love, love.

It is my undoing.

And my completing.

Pressed flowers in a book.

Taken and touched.

Daisychains and garlands.

My heart.

The center of a flower.

Nurtured and nourished.

The translucence of love.

For you.

Simple and sincere.

I bloom.

Cherries In A Bowl

May 28, 2017

My hair disheveled in the sunlight.

Sound of Chopin in the walls a susurration of hummingbird wings.

Flight of fancy.

Figurative.

Literal.

Light on the face of the moon.

Light in the eye of the blue storm.

Revery.

Summer grass.

Uncut, thick, lush, warm from sunlight.

Kisses like thunder building behind storm clouds.

July skies.

Pressing down.

Burdened with the knowledge of connection.

I sabotage myself.

Cherry flesh on my tongue.

Swallow the pit.

I always swallow the pit.

There in the spot of my stomach.

A fluttering.

And the light slanted down across the road and I am on his motorcycle.

A child.

Girl child.

Wild haired and windblown.

Sitting in front of my father on his motorcycle.

He steers with one arm wrapped around my waist and the other on the handlebar.

We fly like blown dander.

The flotsam and jetsam of cotton tree bloom thick in the air.

The slant of sun.

The press of sky.

The road unfurled underneath the wheels.

This moment.

Always.

Golden.

Memory like a savage at my throat.

Kissed me mercilessly.

Devouring every good intention.

Sentimental journey of devotion to the shrine of the past perfect father.

Welling sorrow on my face.

Heart, as per usual, on my sleeve.

Parting such sweet sorrow.

Abyss of longing.

Flying into that darknight.

The rush of falling only to be caught and pressed back and still and held.

There.

That undoing.

Stars flung out, scattershot like dust motes.

Freckled love on the bridge of my nose.

Asunder.

Lovelorn.

Forlorn.

Trampled by my own heart.

Fledgling girl.

Wet winged with love.

Fly away.

Into that sea of fireflies.

There, in the high grass.

Burgeoning.

Slender necks of snapdragon flowers.

Sweet coral pink and pale creamsicle throats.

The thumb of Eros pressed against the padded

Softness of my tender mouth.

Kisslet.

Kissling.

Kissed foundling.

Buried in the pillow of my cheek.

And.

Just.

There.

In tousled gold.

The sun spray on your face.

And.

The barely soft whispering word.

My longing to be heard.

 


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